


Mercy Street

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Batfamily Feels, Character Study, Dick-centric, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Somewhat overt references to American Gods, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:55:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Bruce Wayne is dead. But sometimes, in the gaps between streetlights, the Batman lives on.





	Mercy Street

**Author's Note:**

> *holds out 6k of angst* I'm so sorry. I don't know what inspired me to write this, but I've been stuck on it for over four days. Regardless, I hope you enjoy. You can address any death threats to my tumblr (frownyalfred)

The call he's been expecting, dreading, for years, is fairly uneventful. He'd always imagined it would be a little more dramatic than it really should be-a frantic ringing, him grasping the phone with sweaty palms, a prayer stalled on his lips. _What is it, Alfred? Is he-_

And Alfred would try, try so hard to strip and bleach whatever fate Bruce had met into palatable conversation, voice trembling underneath an iron restraint. He would skip the gruesome details, sparing him the blood and mistakes and regret, even though that was all he would think about.

(He would want to know-or so he'd thought, for so many years. Would want to know how it happened, even if his heart would break into a thousand pieces the very second he knew, because who was he kidding?)

A gunshot, in between plates of armor. A grapple line that just missed its mark. A horrible explosion, perhaps, with Batman caught in the middle of hostages he couldn't bear to leave behind. A knife to his throat, or between his shoulders. A throw into a wall that was too hard, too unforgiving, for him to do anything but fall to the ground-

In reality, the call is brief. Alfred shakes so hard, the receiver crackles, the plastic straining under his fingers. His voice is a hoarse whisper, grief hollowing out his words.

_He's gone,_ the butler says, after a silence so long, Dick almost hangs up, _There was-a-an attack. I…...I'm so sorry._

And then he is alone in his shitty apartment again, the dial tone ringing in his ear. Bludhaven is quiet in the distance, like even the buildings can't help but pause, caught in a moment of requiem for its sister-city. Millions of people, thousands of cars, hundreds of conversations, and for a moment it's...silent. Absolutely silent.

He stares at the linoleum on his countertop, his hands trembling. He can't look away from a slightly-darkened spot in the corner, against the wall. Nightwing is due at the bank in less than thirty minutes, but the thought of putting on his suit is so alien, so outlandish, he can't even will himself to get up.

_It wasn't supposed to happen like this,_ he thinks, looking at the peeling linoleum. It's a spare moment of sanity, a brief respite as the storms of grief swirl around him, begging to drag him back in. Bruce...

_It was never supposed to happen like this._

* * *

There's a funeral. Of course there is-Bruce hadn't been popular with most of the Justice League members, but their respect had been great. The man had been a teacher, a guide, an ally, a mentor, _something,_ to nearly everyone, wanted or not. He'd berated them, trained them, and pushed them, shaping them into something far greater than they ever could have been on their own.

(and he's a living example of that, can feel Bruce's training in every leap and kick, can hear his words even as he draws his sticks, chiding him to keep his knees bent)

It's not until he's standing on the Watchtower, a handful of wildflowers under his arm, that he realizes. Diana's benediction rings out behind him, a hero's blessing that bows the heads of all present. Clark puts a heavy hand on Damian's shoulder, and Dick watches as the youngest Wayne does nothing, says nothing, watching Diana with wide eyes.

_None of them understand,_ he thinks, looking at the empty coffin lying in repose at the observatory's center. _None of them ever knew you,_ he tells the glossy black of the wood, _not really. How could they?_

The ceremony, in all its grandeur, is brief. Clark pushes the empty coffin out into space, the tears flowing freely as he faces the morning sun. The remains of the Wayne family watch from the airlock, pressed to the double-walled glass. Alfred has a handkerchief, dabbing at his eyes as Superman watches over the drifting coffin.

Dick stands behind Damian and Tim and looks at the wall instead, his stomach rolling. The wall is unremarkable, for all he stares at it, a grey shade of some metal he can't name. There's a small scratch by the floor, a few inches below Damian's knees. He stares and he stares until _finally,_ finally, the funeral is done, and they're leaving.

Jason doesn't show up. Dick isn't disappointed. He isn't even surprised. Not really.

* * *

He moves back to Gotham the next morning. Alfred makes a fuss about freshening up his room, relegating him to the parlor as he dusts, cleans, and washes. Any protest is met with a frown, and Dick learns his lesson when he sees the red-rimmed eyes, sees the weary steps Alfred takes past the master bedroom.

(he walks like he's been crushed, like he's bearing a burden too large to be seen, and maybe he is, Dick thinks, because Bruce was his son as much as he was Thomas Wayne's)

He shuts his mouth pretty quickly after that, and lets the cleaning run its course.

Bruce's notes are organized to the point of perfection, catalogued so carefully, it would put most police databases to shame. It's unsettlingly easy to just side-step into Batman's work-to pick up the cowl and page through the notes, where Bruce has written some nonsense like _Rus. arms traffic., 2 AM? Rend. by second red docks, bi-weekly,_ and the stupid fucking part is Dick just _knows-_ knows that, next week, he'll be sitting on a tanker at 2 AM at the shipyard, waiting to bust an arms smuggler as Gotham sleeps behind him-

Damian is silent as he goes up and down the Cave's stairs, an unmoving presence on the far wall. He's been quiet, reticent even with Alfred. More irritable than usual with Tim, volatile even with Cassandra.

He's too young-so young, Dick thinks, to lose a parent. And Dick knows what it's like to lose a parent, even if he'd like to forget.

(but bitterness claws up his throat whenever he tries to speak, to reach out to Damian, and he finds he can't make a sound. Can only grimace, some horrible parody of a smile, and push himself up to the next step as he passes his brother, his not-sibling, the ties between them cut and cauterized in an instant)

_Want to get dinner with me?_ he forces out on the third day, throat burning. Everything, all the grief and pain and worry that's swirling within him, and it's all he can ask. _Are you alright?_ he wants to say instead, _were you there when he-did you see-_

Damian stares at him. His lips twist into a snarl as Dick gets too close, like a warning. He shakes his head, and, well, that doesn't need much translating at all.

* * *

He and Tim take over patrol, dividing up the city, blocking out a tentative routine even though the mediocrity of it makes him want to scream. He'd been the first, the first Robin, Bruce's first attempt at fixing the fucked-up life he'd fallen into-it makes sense that the others would defer to him, even if it stings.

Tim watches him, and it feels like he's always staring, cataloguing every move and word, and it isn't till later that he realizes he's waiting-waiting for orders, for a plan, for Bruce to come walking back in and growl at them about after-action reports. Some sort of _structure,_ and the thought that he could do that- _be_ that-makes him want to scream.

(He's not Bruce-he never could be, thought he'd proven that, years ago-but now they need him to be. _Gotham_ needs him to be, and the aching in his bones won't let him rest without acknowledging that)

He spends Tuesdays on the old millinery rooftop adjacent to the station, retracing steps that are over a decade old. For a few moments before each patrol, he stands on the edge and imagines his feet as they were years ago. Imagines the gruff voice over his shoulder, the presence at his side as they kept a watchful eye on the fading sunset-remembers the soft whisper of Bruce's cape behind him, biting at his heels.

(He centers himself there, ignoring how his escrima sticks dig into his back. It's so easy to fall into memory, remembering the freedom of those early days-how a leap and a somersault could take him across buildings, if he could only throw himself forward. How Bruce would be right behind him, the worry on his face masked completely, only visible if you knew where to look)

He starts his patrols there often. Tim mentions it once, not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is. Dick ruffles his hair, makes a joke, but the tightness in his chest is enough to leave him breathless. For a brief moment, the panic overtakes him again-the fear that, somehow, they'll know he isn't holding it together. That they'd see how he's struggling. Tim would see it first-he'd have to.

(He _can't_ )

"Burgers?" he asks the younger man, getting a slight smile back, and these days, those are worth their weight in gold.

"You're on."

* * *

It's in between the alleys, caught against brick and rotten siding, that he sees Bruce. A Gotham alley at three in the morning is dangerous, even for him, but he can't help walking through them sometimes, can't help pressing himself to the wall and just _breathing,_ for a moment.

Bruce had embraced darkness, even with as much as it had taken from him. Had molded himself into the shadows until it was impossible to tell the difference; until even _Superman_ had a hard time telling the two apart.

(one of his first setbacks after the circus had been a night like this, with Batman at his back, larger than life. He remembers the terror of looking behind him, mouth open to ask a question, and seeing this _figure,_ this _creature,_ a silent presence behind him. _Christ,_ how that had scared him, knowing the man beneath the mask would never hurt him, but unable, in that childish moment, to see Bruce's face beyond the Bat's)

It's late, and the bars let out more than an hour ago. The alley is empty, filled with rotting garbage and the hiss of a stray rat or ten. He remembers fighting in alleys like this, how Bruce had spent a whole week talking about close-quarter combat. About angles and knives and being outnumbered and _faster, Richard, keep your head up, let the weight roll forward or you'll-_

It's in that stupid fucking alley, at ass o-clock in the morning, that he sees him. He's pressed against the wall, crouched on his knees with his head in his hands, and he for some reason he looks up and sees-

-sees a shadow at the entrance of the alley, a dark figure that he recognizes like the beating of his own heart, and for a moment he _freezes,_ unable to believe his eyes, unable to trust what he's seeing-

" _Bruce,_ " he chokes out, hand outstretched, and suddenly he's lurching to his feet, like someone's touched a live wire to his skin. "Bruce, wait-"

But the shadow is moving, sliding into the night like it'd never been there in the first place. Dick sees what looks like the edge of a cape, swears he hears it scrape against the brick for half a second, and then it's-it's gone.

He blinks, searching for the person, the figure, but the alley is empty. He's alone again.

The moment stretches out, disbelief twisting his vision. He falls back against the wall, heart racing. He's breathing quickly, dangerously close to hyperventilating, and it's only years of training that has him shoving his head between his knees, taking a deep breath in, then out, begging the tears not to fall.

_It wasn't real,_ he thinks, his mind stumbling in clumsy circles, _of course it wasn't fucking real. How could it be real?_

(and a part of him, a traitorous part of him begins to _think_ , a poisonous idea splintering through his mind. _You never saw a body, Clark said he was just-gone. How sure can you be that he's even actually_ dead, _huh? It could be him, it could be-_ )

He growls, slamming his head backwards until he hits brick, _hard._ The impact silences those thoughts, but he regrets it almost immediately, growing dizzy as blood rushes to the crown of his head. He winces, pressing a hand to the cut as the alley fades in and out of view.

_What the fuck were you thinking?_ a part of him roars, _What the fuck were you_ thinking _?_

(It sounds a lot like Bruce)

He closes his eyes, shuddering, and waits there, for hours. Waits until the wail of sirens begins in the distance, drawing him back to the city- _his_ city, now.

* * *

He's a small boy again as he enters Bruce's bedroom, a foot across the threshold transporting him back instantly. Clothes and books litter the room, organized into piles, some strange system Dick could never figure out, untouched for almost a year.

He sits on the bed, made carefully with military-like corners. There's a book on the nightstand, some fantasy novel _,_ he registers distantly, unable to muster much interest beyond glancing at the title) and a glass of water near the window. It feels, seems, looks so much like _Bruce_ that his throat closes for a moment, burning.

(was this how Bruce had grown up, choked by the remnants of his parents around him, a thousand reminders _every day,_ in every room, every time he looked in the mirror? Could he see his father in his jaw, or trace his mother across his cheekbones? Was this how a son mourned a parent, in secret, in self-loathing and hidden moments?)

He sits there for an hour, gazing out the window. Remembers climbing into Bruce's gigantic bed as a child, trembling from another nightmare. Remembers how large Bruce had seemed back then, how, no matter the dream, his hugs could protect him from anything.

He remembers how he'd pretend to fall asleep, curled up in Bruce's arms, leaving him no choice but to let him stay. And Bruce wouldn't mention it, but Dick knew, _knew_ even then that he didn't mind, that this was the closest Bruce ever got to showing affection; curled up around a tiny boy, fighting off nightmares simply by _being_.

He doesn't let the tears fall this time. He is numb, sitting on Bruce Wayne's perfect sheets, in Bruce Wayne's perfect house, with Bruce Wayne's imperfect memories haunting him. More numb than after the circus, or after Jason, even.

He is both too old and too young, trapped within a moment. He's Dick Grayson, Nightwing, Robin, _Dick,_ Richard, all of them, and suddenly it's too _much_ -too fucking much, and that realization is startling.

Alfred is a few paces down the hallway when he throws himself from the room, dusting innocuously. His eyes follow him down the stairs, like he _knows,_ and it's Alfred, so Dick doesn't even bother pretending he doesn't. Doesn't bother pretending that he isn't fleeing Bruce's bedroom, hands trembling where they're clenched at his sides.

"I'm going out," he says, redundant, taking the steps two at a time, "I'll be back soon."

Alfred's _of course, sir_ follows him down the stairwell, a hint of worry, of regret, of _something_ in his inscrutable tone, and Dick can't find it in himself to stop, to pause, to smile and reassure like he'd used to.

(right now, he's cracked, splintered into a thousand pieces, and if he stops, he'll shatter for sure)

_You're becoming more and more like Bruce, you know,_ a voice says, and it sounds a lot like Jason, halfway between snide and resigned. _Who'd have seen that coming, huh?_

(he beats three men close to death that night, comes back to the cave with blood dripping off his escrima sticks, Bruce's memory worn like torn gloves across his hands, until even he can see the pointlessness of pretending this is anyone's fault but his. That the way he's dealing with this-the way he's _handling_ this-is anyone's fault but his)

* * *

Maybe it's the exhaustion, or the strain of pretending that everything is fine, of putting on a show every second of the day-but after that, he starts seeing him everywhere.

He sees the edge of Bruce's cape every other night, fluttering on the side of buildings, or in the corner of his eye as he races down the street. If he concentrates, letting go like Bruce had drilled into him with years of meditation, he can almost sense it.

Bruce is a black mark above his shoulder, a pair of invisible eyes burning into his back, a silent presence. He is a cowl, an outline, a half-shadow on the top of buildings and warehouses, watching over Gotham.

(and Gotham misses its protector, its Dark Knight, there is no doubt. The city has a rhythm to it, a steady heartbeat in the traffic, the gunshots, the screams that rip through the night. If he listens, really _listens,_ he can almost hear Bruce's voice underneath it all, a soft laugh or grunt, his _hmm_ a question, a statement, approval and motivation, all in one syllable. And above him, the soft whine of Gotham, its pained murmurs as crime rises and falls, as night ends and daybreak forces its light into the city)

Jim Gordon isn't the same, and even if it's selfish, it's a small comfort. Nightwing drops by now and then with intel, and Gotham PD struggles along, thankful for anything he can give.

(it's painful, on top of that rooftop, making small talk and knowing he could never have the same camaraderie, the same rapport. He tries anyway, if only to honor what had once been, a relationship that had stretched much further than he'd ever realized)

The Lieutenant takes pity on him. Sometimes there's a blistering mug of coffee waiting for him, paired with a muttered excuse about using up the last pot. It's shitty cop coffee, and Dick drinks it gratefully no matter what.

"You holding up?" Gordon asks one night, casual, a case file in his other hand. They're hunting another mob, another boss, and the week has been hell. Dick watches him carefully over the rim of the mug. The coffee steams up his glasses, worn high on his nose, obscuring his eyes. "Son?"

(He swears he sees a shadow across Jim Gordon's lenses, swears if he turns around he'll see another corner, another shadow, and the blur across Gordon's glasses would become real again, would be more than a fantasy, or some fevered dream)

"Fine," he chokes out the words, unable to hide the way his hand trembles ever so slightly against the ceramic. He sets the mug down, nodding at the other man. "I'll get that intel back to you tomorrow night."

"Good," Gordon says as he hauls himself up onto the edge of the rooftop, and Dick can't make eye contact again, can't turn around at the doubt in the Lieutenant's voice, at the unspoken question there. He throws out a grappling line and swings himself away, the bitter wind stripping any emotion from his face.

That night he comes back to the Cave late, beyond exhausted. He finds Damian curled up in Bruce's chair, his tiny head pillowed against the armrest. It's all he can do not to break down right then and there, seeing Damian's little chest rise and fall, his arms clenched tight against the leather of the chair, like he could press himself into the material.

Dick's heart breaks all over again as he spots the black fabric nestled in Damian's arms, the corner of one of Bruce's old capes tucked under his chin. He must have been sneaking down while he'd been out, Dick thinks, must have been hiding this like a guilty secret he'd never admit to.

And _fuck_ if that isn't depressing, because, at the end of the day, Damian's just a boy missing his father, as much as he pretends otherwise. He's so fucking _young_ , and the wrongness of that burns through him. He hates Bruce for a moment, hates his mission and his choices and his irresponsibility, hates his decision to leave a _child_ behind.

He hates that they're like this without him-that the independence and self-sufficiency he and Jason had paraded in front of Bruce, over and over again, had all been a lie. It had fallen apart in the blink of an eye.

(he doesn't meet Gordon the next night, or the one after it. He hopes the other man won't hold it against him. He figures he probably will, but, well. He can't bring himself to care at this point, anyway)

* * *

He finally breaks down one night, on that stupid rooftop, the first time he wears Batman's suit out.

Gordon's been bugging him for weeks about it, dropping hints when he can. He sees the nudges and suggestions from a mile away, knows that Gotham needs its symbol back, its savior, even if the man himself is gone.

(and still, _still,_ it's so fucking hard to undo the clasps and latches, to press kevlar to his skin and draw Bruce's cowl across his face. They were the same height before Bruce died; now, months of pulling double patrols and working out with the force when he can, and he almost fills out the suit, almost)

And it's standing on top of that building, a dark cape rippling behind him, heavy gloves padding his knuckles, that he realizes. Realizes that he's been kidding himself this whole time. He doesn't have it together. He isn't anywhere _close_ to okay, as much as reassures Alfred and Tim and Gordon and even Damian, when the brat dares to imply he isn't-

He pulls the cowl off and stumbles, throws up his half-eaten dinner into the corner. He heaves and heaves, nausea twisting his stomach, praying that one of the Rogues isn't watching, isn't laughing as Batman falls to his knees on gravel and shudders, almost imperceptibly, under the cape.

He wipes his mouth, then tears the gloves off so he doesn't have to feel Batman's hands against his skin. His own hands seem so small, pale in the moonlight. The calluses are a bright red, a painful reminder of the endless patrols and training of the past few months.

Somehow, unlucky, unaware, or both, Jason finds him there, kneeling over the discarded cowl and gauntlets. He doesn't hear him enter the roof, doesn't hear him until he's a foot away, a pair of motorcycle boots blocking his vision.

"Dickie," Jason clucks his tongue. The sound digs into his brain. There's another grunt as he spots the vomit, putting it together. "Jesus Christ. He-he's not _worth it,_ you idiot."

He grabs Dick's face, forcing him to look up. His eyes are a bright green in the darkness, burning into his. It's the most emotion Jason's shown outside of murderous rage, and of course it would be about Bruce, Dick thinks, bitter.

"Don't you dare do this to yourself," Jason whispers, his fingers digging into his temples, pressing into his skin, holding him immobile. Dick couldn't move if he wanted. "Gotham can rot. You don't owe it anything, you understand?"

And he wants to believe him, but Bruce is standing over Jason's shoulder suddenly, his back turned to them. He's watching over Gotham, the graceful tilt of his head catching the light from below, casting shadows across his jaw. He's close enough to touch, and if he just reaches out-

Jason's eyes follow his. Dick is ready for outright dismissal, for the doubt and berating. He steels himself and-

his world stops as Jason goes pale. His eyes catch on Bruce's back, widening. There's a muttered curse, and then the hands drop from his face, ripped away. The other man leaps forward, reaching for the shadow-

"Mother _fucker_."

And then Bruce is gone, again, and Dick's breathing fast enough, he might throw up again. Jason paces around the rooftop as his world spins, ranting and rambling, a hand pushing his hair back.

"What the fuck," Jason says for the millionth time, looking at him, "What the _fuck._ You-you saw that too, right? I'm not going crazy?"

And then he's fifteen again, and Jason's so much smaller, the two of them locking eyes as Alfred or Bruce or someone lectures them for some prank, some game. Suddenly they're brothers again, this shared experience repairing what time couldn't, what pain and forgiveness couldn't mend-

"I can't-can't stop seeing him," Dick pushes himself to his feet, feeling his legs tremble underneath him. "Everywhere. Every night."

"What the _fuck_."

"I don't know-"

"What the fuck-"

"I don't _know!_ "

Jason looks up at the sound of his shout, shocked. His hand stills at his waist, dangerously close to his guns.

"Dick-"

And then there's arms around him, shoving him towards a too-large chest, and he lets himself get pushed, pulled.

(he hate how he's imagining the last time Bruce did this, how similar it felt. Yet, for Jason to hug him, for Jason to even show _up,_ is so much, is more than he deserves)

"Fuck me," Jason whispers into his hair, holding him so tight, he's shaking with the effort. Maybe it's Dick who's trembling, must be, because he can't feel his legs anymore. "Dickie, you fucking idiot. Why didn't you tell me. Why didn't you fucking tell me."

And Dick can't help but snort against Jason's jacket, muffled in the leather. Suddenly, he's laughing, the pain and bitterness and far-away grief tumbling out of him all at once. He laughs and laughs and soon he's crying, the sobs wrenched from his throat, and then he's laughing again-

(and Jason holds him, stands there like he hasn't in years, and he's so _relieved,_ so grateful that he isn't the only one going through this anymore, that the feeling is like euphoria, even though he's sweating in the suit, the clasps digging into his neck and chest. Even though his stomach is still rolling and he can barely find the strength to stand, because Jason is there, Jason is propping him up-)

Jason takes him back to the Cave, gathering up his gloves and the discarded cowl in one hand. He puts him on the bike and drives them back slowly, holding on like Dick might fall off, and he might. He' sure he wouldn't feel much, not now, not buried in three layers of kevlar and body armor.

The Cave is empty when they arrive, silent save for the chirping of the bats, nestled far above them. Jason sets him on the cot in the medbay. He smooths down Dick's hair, something unspoken in his eyes. An apology, maybe. He'd like to think it is.

His eyes begin to close as Jason steps away. The bike starts, the engine sending out a low purr. It bounces off the walls, multiplying into a single, indistinct note.

Dick shuts his eyes and gives in to his exhaustion, trying to ignore the kevlar digging into his knees.

* * *

They find Bruce's body on a Tuesday. Three years later, to the day, and Dick still can almost believe it. Clark squeezes his shoulder as he delivers the news, face grim. _-something to do with Darkseid, in an alternate plane_ is all he catches, staring at the coffin. _We found him as soon as we could. I'm so sorry, Dick._

(and wants to scream, wants to grab Clark and force to listen, to shake him and say, _look, he's not dead, I've been seeing him for years, alright? He can't be dead. He just can't)_

But he's been fooling himself all along. That's the beauty of it. There's no way Bruce is alive.

(he'd finally gotten around to reading that novel on Bruce's bedside table, a few months into the second year. He'd stared, transfixed, as a story had evolved before his very eyes, twisting and turning. The idea that a person could live on after death, even as an idea, had fascinated him, but now-)

He'd catch a glimpse of Batman on patrol every now and then, from the corner of his eye, or sometimes he'd just get a _feeling,_ like there was something behind him. And he'd see the edge of a cape, or the outline of the cowl against the skyline, and just _know_.

( _Batman lived on because people believed in him,_ he thinks, _because Gotham needs Batman, just as much as he needed Gotham_ )

But who had believed in Bruce Wayne? Certainly a few, in some misguided way. Even fewer had known just _Bruce-_ the man, the teacher, the father. They hadn't seen the quiet patience, the skill hiding under Armani and champagne. They hadn't seen the little boy beneath it all, desperate to fix the world.

_Why would they?_ he thinks, turning the thought over in his mind. It's a petty thing to lodge against the people of Gotham, and yet he does it anyway. Blames them, somehow, for affixing themselves to Batman, and not the man underneath.

(blames himself for not holding onto Bruce, in death, or maybe for holding on too tightly)

* * *

"I know you're not really listening," he tells the skyline, his voice soft. "But I'll make this quick anyway."

The wind picks up for a moment, as if answering him, and he smiles. The cape on his back whips around, rippling in the breeze. For the first time in a while, its weight doesn't bother him.

"We miss you," he says, pausing, "We all miss you. Jason included. Damian is doing better, if that makes you happy. He's talking to some girl at school. He's infuriated, his word, not mine. Alfred says he has a crush, and that she's better at calculus than him. He has a 'meeting'-" Dick mimes air quotes to the empty roof, "with her later next week, apparently. I'm calling it a date, though. What do you think?"

The rooftop is silent. He digs his boot in the gravel a little, shuffling it around.

"I miss you, B," he says, hearing the sadness in his voice, even as the wind carries it away. "I hope-wherever you are, you're resting well. And I'm...I'm sorry."

Like he'd expected, the rooftop is silent. He supposes that, even if Bruce were here, he wouldn't have said much. Would've nodded, hugging him briefly. Maybe reminding him that his patrol was waiting, and not to start down 42nd street, because he'd begun there last night, and that would be far too predictable-

The sound of footsteps startles him. He has a batarang out before he even turns around completely, ready to throw.

His hand falters as Batman steps out of the shadows, dropping to his side. He swears his heart stutters, pausing within his chest.

It's the first time he's ever been this close, the first time Dick's seen him this clearly. He can count the tiny details in the armor, the cowl, that match his own. The jaw, the outline of his lips against the sky-everything is perfect. An achingly perfect replica.

(and it's so hard to see flesh, to see what looks like a living man and _know,_ with his very soul, that this is not Bruce. That whatever is standing in front of him is something greater than a man, above things like grief and longing)

Batman stares at him, and the experience is both unsettling and intensely familiar. They remain a few feet apart, frozen. Waiting?

Dick blinks as the man-the figure-drops his head, breaking the moment. Batman's gaze turns, out across the city. _His_ city.

He makes the mistake of looking, too curious to see what's calling to this Batman. When his eyes flick back, the other man is just...gone. There's not a piece of gravel out of place, nothing to indicate he'd even been there at all.

In the distance, almost a mile away, his eye catches on a twist of black fabric. With a half-smile, he pulls the cowl across his brow, latching it under his chin.

In between one moment and the next, he throws himself across the building, his arms spread wide.

_Looks like there's two Batmans out on the town tonight,_ Dick thinks, and then he's laughing into the wind, still falling. Bruce's cape catches the wind suddenly, billowing out behind him.

_Watch out, Gotham._

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought?


End file.
